Irrevocable Heart: Siamese Amnesia 2
by E Phoenix
Summary: Part 2 of Siamese Amnesia. Holmes and Watson deal with the filthy world of sexual slavery they entered into in the last story and deal with a bold enemy who will threaten them wherever they are--even at Baker Street. Please RR! See profile 4 OC sketches.
1. Day Eight: Part One

**Author's Note: **No time for a long note, it's almost time for classes, but I wanted to put this up. Here is the intro into part two of The Problem of Siamese Amnesia. I hope you enjoy!

And yes, it may seem unrelated at first but hopefully you'll find the connections.

Let me know what you think! Please R+R. :) And please answer my poll on my profile, too. :D

* * *

**Irrevocable Heart**

The armed man, who was dressed as a gentleman but had a badge and truncheon, slid into the small alcove between two fish-skinning shacks and drew his firearm. He knew, absolutely knew, that he was being shadowed.

Sure enough, he heard footsteps approaching and jumped out, gun at the ready.

"Don't mo—"

Before the Yarder could even finish, the man who had been tailing him caught his right hand—gun and all—and slammed it into the wall over his shoulder hard enough to free the weapon from his grasp. _That didn't go as planned_, the lawman thought, ducking a punch and throwing his weight—which wasn't very much considering he was rather lean—into his attacker.

They crashed into the side of one of the shacks together. The Yarder, a thin, wiry-muscled man, drew out his truncheon with his left hand and pounded it into his tail's stomach. The man who'd been tailing him hardly flinched and instead threw a heavy punch, the punch of an extremely skilled boxer, into the Yarder's eye.

The lawman reeled, but managed another punch of his own before his attacker hit him again, then tackled him, making the Yarder's head bounce off the pavement.

He didn't move. Warily, the man who'd been following him prodded him with his foot. Definitely out. For a small, lean, man the Yarder had surely put up more of a fight than he'd anticipated. He hadn't really wanted to hurt the man, not seriously, so he hoped the lawman wasn't too injured. He bent down next to him.

"Yer lucky it uz me foll'win' yer, mate," Jack Uden said softly, pulling the Yarder's whistle out of his pocket. "Any o' th' others'd killed yer."

He put the whistle to his mouth and gave several short bursts, only satisfied when he heard the pounding of feet coming his way.

When he was sure someone was coming to the unconscious man's aide, Jack dropped the whistle and vanished. He'd known that this particular Inspector wouldn't have come here without some sort of back up.

* * *

Sergeant Greene hadn't really wanted to come down to this area by the docks, he'd grown up here, but a Sergeant didn't disobey an Inspector. He'd been flirting innocently with a few of the girls when he heard the whistle. Instantly he stopped being friendly, all around well-liked Tommy Greene and turned into the dogged Sergeant that had a reputation for charging into the fray ever since he'd gotten his first injury all those years ago.

He ran for all he was worth and stopped short when he reached the crumpled form next to one of the wharves many fish shacks.

"Inspector?" He asked, hurriedly kneeling down next to the prone man after surveying the area and making sure it wasn't a trap. He pulled a decently clean handkerchief out of his uniform's pocket and sat down, lifting the man so he was propped on his lap. One eye was already purple and swollen shut, he had a gash in his eyebrow where a blow had opened it, and, after a careful inspection, he had a nasty bump with considerable bruising and bleeding on the back of his head.

Meg, one of the girls he'd talked to, gasped, having followed him.

"Fin' some wa'er Meggie," Sergeant Tommy Greene ordered. "An' call fer a doc."

She hurried away. Satisfied, Tommy Greene did what he could to stanch the blood flow. The inspector moaned as he pressed the handkerchief to the back of his head.

"Inspector Lestrade?" The sergeant asked worriedly. "Can yer 'ear me?"

Lestrade was the best of the high rankers, a little cocky, maybe, but just as concerned for his men as for himself. The inspector didn't move or groan again and Tommy waited for help in worried silence.


	2. Day Eight: Part Two

**Author's Note: **Again, I don't have much time to type this. Seems I'll be here longer than the 15th, I'm not sure when I'll be home, but I will read all your guys' story updates whenever I do make it home. I've missed you guys! Yeah that sounds silly lol.

Anyway, here is the next installment. Hope you like SA part 2 so far. I thought Irrevocable Heart sounded like a good title.

Please read, review, AND answer my poll on my profile. I know, that's a lot of things to ask for but hey, I'm exhausted but still updating for you, the street should go both ways... ;)

(Thanks KCS, for well wishes, the electronic chocolate and caffine and hugs is always a help. :))

Thanks for reading!

* * *

Day Eight Part Two

**Lestrade**

"Inspector, I rilly thin' yer should be goin' ter a hospi'al an' lyin' down," Tommy insists, putting a steady arm around my shoulder as I groan when the carriage turns a bend.

My head _hurts_. And I'm wet. It may be that Sergeant Greene is right, but my first thought on being awakened by that supposed 'doctor' as he dumped water over my head was to go talk to Mr. Holmes. And a visit with Dr. Watson probably wouldn't hurt either at this point, especially as my vision is somewhat doubled—two Sergeant Greenes sit next to me and the cab appears to have four doors instead of the usual two.

The vehicle jolts as it passes through a hole in the road, and I suppress another groan, putting the side of my face against the side of the carriage—I can't lean backwards or my head'll start bleeding again. Although I'm not sure it actually _stopped_…

I feel woozy, like I'm on the precipice between being conscious and fainting, but so far sheer stubbornness has kept me awake. Gregson always said my dogged obstinate attitude had to be good for something. Thinking about Tobias, how is it that he always gets the easy cases? _I'm_ assigned to a hopelessly tangled murder where one gets thoroughly beaten while insufferable, pompous Gregson gets the Bergman burglary, which has _obviously_ been perpetrated by the daughter's lover. I think part of the problem is not that Mr. Tobias Gregson is cleverer than I am—he is—but that he has deucedly better luck, as well. You don't see _him_ waking up in disreputable locations half dead.

It just isn't fair somehow that the main suspect in his case left his ruddy _trousers_ behind at the crime scene and was seen running down the road in only his drawers and carrying a large sack that presumably contained the stolen items. Even the boy's lover admitted that they were stealing from her father so that they could run away together.

Under such circumstances, Gregson's got the case all neatly tied up—Bergman's blooming' _dog_ could have solved it—and is walking around like a puffed up twit.

On the other hand, I've gotten myself involved in a brutal case of murder—of a woman, no less—that has no witnesses to speak of and even fewer clues. Except that chap that was following me who introduced my head to the cobblestones. He most probably is involved in my case. It's hard to think around this headache—I feel like I've gotten ice-picks in my eye and the back of my head. I rather wish the man hadn't escaped, and prior to that, hadn't flattened me—I surely would've liked to have detained him for questioning or at the least have trounced him soundly. Instead, all I got from him was a horrible headache. And eye-ache. And wet clothes. And injured pride.

I doubt I'll be rid of this shiner in a month and I'm certain I've got a lump on the back of my head the size of Gregson's ego. If Tommy hadn't stumbled across me and fetched that quack doctor who threw water over me, I'd probably still be lying in a ditch by the docks. Ugh, this ride seems more bouncing and jolting than is natural.

It really is ruddy hard to think straight when my skull's aching!

But there's still one thing I know—I'd rather have my arms and legs chained with derbies and get dropped in the river than ask Tobias for help when he's being so darned priggish.

Which is why I'm on my way to Baker Street. Well, it's one of the reasons—Dr. Watson is a factor in the equation too—there's no other doctor I'd rather have probing at my head. As for Holmes, I've heard the brother of Miss Fairchild employed him to look into her murder. No doubt the consulting detective has some kind of wild theory that's about as sound and stable as a drunken bobby and is based on absolutely no hard evidence—I'm all for evidence, myself—that will somehow prove to be right in the end.

Of course, Holmes is nearly as annoying as Gregson when it comes to deprecating one's intelligence, but at least he doesn't strut like a peacock around the Yard saying how 'terribly sorry' he is for my 'turn of rotten luck' and that it's a shame how I'll be 'moved back down to a Police Sergeant' if it continues.

I would've come here last week, but I thought I had a lead with a young Chinese woman one of the constables saw hanging around after the murder, claiming to live at Miss Fairchild's house, but the idiot scared her off. She may have been the only witness or perhaps an accomplice?

The cab lurches to a stop and I swear as my brains rattle about in my head. Seems we've arrived at Baker Street. I hope that Mr. Holmes isn't in one of his provoking moods because I truly am not in the best of tempers. I also hope I don't fall over at his doorstep—the step down from the cab looks awfully long.

I get out of the carriage gingerly and nearly fall over, but Greene catches my elbow. "Thank you, Sergeant," I say softly. "This is my stop, so if you want to go home—"

"No sir. I'm goin' ter see yer 'ome. T'aint fit fer yer ter be 'lone, wha' wit' yer head stove in." He has such a lovely colloquial way of putting things. "I'll wait ou'side, sir, 'less yer need help getting' in?"

"That's alright, Tommy." I ring at the door and Mrs. Hudson opens it. "Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson."

"Inspector Lestrade," Mrs. Hudson turns, not looking at me. "Nice to see you. I hate to hurry off but the cake's done. You're just in time to get a piece, if you'd like one."

I was going to decline but unfortunately my stomach took the opportunity to growl fiercely at the thought of Mrs. Hudson's cooking and she laughed, almost out the doorway.

"I expect you can go on up—Mr. Holmes yelled down that it would be you at the door, so he was expecting you."

Of _course_ he was. He _always_ was.

"Oh, Mr. Lestrade, your eye," the landlady gasps when she finally turns back to look at me. No doubt I do look horrid—my right eye is swollen entirely shut and I'm sure I don't appear at all presentable. "I'll get you some ice with the cake."

I start to tell her that isn't necessary, but she intuits what I am going to say and gives me a fierce glare. "Don't argue with a woman, Mr. Lestrade, when it comes to matters of health."

_Or anything else_, I think fuzzily. She fusses over me a bit more before I extract myself and head up the stairs, slowly and carefully, into the sitting room.

It would be a lot easier to walk if the ground wasn't spinning. I open the door and the first thing I spot is the doctor, looking peakish himself, sitting in an arm chair and reapplying a bandage to an Asian young woman's wrist, then replacing a splint on top. Wait, a Chinese girl? My overtaxed and injured brain takes a moment to realize the situation. What an odd coincidence… Though when it comes to anything to do with Mr. Holmes, I believe less and less in coincidences.

The detective himself is perusing over various file folders and barely glances up when I enter the room.

"Hello, Inspector Lestrade," Holmes' voice is as calm and composed as ever, acting as though my appearance is not in the slightest bit strange, though that could be because he hasn't really looked at me yet. "I wondered when you'd be by."

I open my mouth to try and say, "Hello, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, Miss," in greeting to each of them but my vision swirls suddenly and I stagger a step forward.

Dr. Watson immediately leaps from his chair, rather shaky himself, and I notice fuzzily that Mr. Holmes seems more concerned with him getting up so abruptly than with me falling down so abruptly.

Of all places to pass into unconsciousness, Mr. Sherlock Holmes' sitting room would be one of the _last_ on my list. Vaguely I feel someone catch me as my vision turns entirely red, and then there is blessedly pain--and embarrassment--free nothingness.


	3. Day Eight: Part Three

**Author's Note: **Here's the next bit. so tired, can't write more right now, may edit this note later to be longer. ill be home either the 19 or 20th. (So, K, I'll see u briefly b4 u leave)

Everyone, thanks for all ur support, it means a lot, it's what's kept me going when im running on empty. please r and r and answer my poll. (hugs everyone) 3

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Day Eight: Part Three

**Watson**

"I'm not the one to worry about at the moment, Holmes, so please stop fussing," I say, in a more testy tone than I intended. I'm on my knees, which is admittedly uncomfortable, bent over Lestrade, who is lying on his side and facing the back of the couch. "I'm sorry, dear fellow, it's just—"

"That you're ribs are aching, your leg hurts, your headache has started again," Holmes replies in a dry, knowing voice, "and you never care for yourself as well as you do any—and every—one else."

I purse my lips slightly at his response, as close to the truth as it may be, and I do not glance at Holmes as I finish the final stitch.

Lucky for Lestrade, the actual injury, as with most head injuries, looks worse than it is. When he came in with blood dripping into his right eye and pouring all down the back of his head I was, naturally, exceedingly concerned.

I eye my handiwork critically; it appears to be done well enough. I've sewn the cut on the back of his head with three small sutures, pulling the skin together as neatly as I could.

The poor inspector also has a considerable amount of bruising and swelling beneath and all around the gash. All of Lestrade's other visible injuries are minor—he did need some plaster on the cut above his eye, and the swelling there is horrible, but it appears as though only the tissue around it has been injured and not the sight organ itself. My real worry is reserved for any _internal_ damage that may have occurred. In my own opinion—which is hampered by the fact that I am a general practitioner and _not_ a neurologist—and judging from the fact that Lestrade was not slurring when he spoke and that he was able to make it here at all, I'd say his concussion is mild to moderate and _not_ severe. Of course, I can only be certain when he wakes up.

At least now he's stitched and medicated—the rest is up to his resilience, which is hardy in the extreme. Now to stop the swelling around that eye and the back of his head...

I glance over at Holmes, and at Miss Samira, who seemed to take Lestrade fainting, my diving and catching him, Holmes steadying me after I did so, and the ensuing chaos quite well. "Could one of you please fetch me some ice?"

"Is your head hurting that much, Watson?" Holmes answers my question with a question, frowning at me. He is still perturbed that I leapt from my chair to catch Lestrade and for that matter, would have rather called for a different doctor altogether so that I would have been spared the 'trouble' of tending him.

"I meant ice for _him_, not for me," I reply. It _is_ gratifying that Holmes worries for me—normally he shows so little of his emotions—and I am truly grateful for his solicitude, but I never have been very patient when I myself am the 'patient.'

"I will get," Samira says softly. Really, she is quite the proficient nurse, acting as my assistant if Holmes is preoccupied whenever I tend to either her or my own injuries.

"Thank you," I say, and I am awarded with one of her rare smiles before she ducks her head and hurries out of the room.

Shoving myself to my feet, I feel a momentary wave of dizziness and Holmes is instantly at my side, putting a steadying hand beneath my elbow. Wisely, he does not mention my momentary weakness, he merely keeps his hand there until the blackness fades from my vision. "Thank you," I say again, this time to Holmes.

As soon as I appear steady, he releases me and strides over to peer down at Lestrade. "How is the Inspector?"

Holmes' voice sounds normal, but when I glance at him I see he has furrowed his brows slightly. I _knew_ he was worried about Lestrade—although it is likely the man himself doesn't know as much.

"As well as can be expected," I reply with a sigh, sitting in the armchair nearest to the couch. "I'll know how bad the concussion is when he awakens. The morphine I've given him should keep asleep for a time; rest and stillness are best for a head injury, after all."

"Indeed?" With one word and the lifting of an eyebrow, Holmes conveys that he is dissatisfied with my _own_ efforts to follow said advice.

I flush slightly. "I'm well enough, Holmes."

Naturally, I desist from mentioning that my headache currently is as bad as it has been in a few days—I've been up too long, I fear. Nothing for it, however; Lestrade needs me.

"After Miss Samira brings the ice, you're going back to bed."

"Am I?" I ask jokingly at his serious tone.

"Certainly. I shall stay with Lestrade and keep vigil." When I start to protest, he holds up a hand. "If he happens to worsen or wake up, I will fetch you upon the instant."

He is fixing me with one of his most serious glares and I sigh, nodding my acquiescence. There isn't any point in arguing with him, especially as I know I really _am_ nearly done in.

We wait in silence for a time and then Holmes looks from me to the door with a slight, thoughtful frown on his face. I wonder if he's thinking that it seems to be taking Samira an awful long time to fetch that ice…

"Watson," Holmes says softly. "Mrs. Hudson answered the door. Why hasn't she brought up something for Lestrade? Normally her motherly instincts would at least make her inquire if she could help in some way…"

"And Samira should have been back with the ice by now," I add, rising unsteadily to my feet, a sudden foreboding cold upon my neck.

Holmes gives a short nod in response and strides hurriedly over to collect my gun as I move in front of the prone inspector, snatching a fireplace poker.

Something _was_ wrong, we both knew it. All that remained to be seen was _what_.


	4. Day Eight: Part Four

**Author's Note: **Me again. Here is the next chapter, sorry for the cliffhangers, I've not the time to work on these a lot otherwise I'd try and be more prompt and less scatterbrained in these note.

Thanks everyone who has sent caffine and/or well wishes my way, it's appreciated. I'm still dog tired, but if it wasn't for your all's nice thoughts, i'd be in a coma probably.

Please R+R. Lemme know what u think so far... :)

* * *

Day Eight: Part Four

**Samira**

_Meanwhile…_

The steps blur as you walk down them hurriedly and what you see when you glance up causes you to stop abruptly.

There are three figures in the entryway at the bottom of the stairs; one is prostrate and the other two are looking at you. The man on the floor is an unconscious Yarder you've never seen before. Crouching next to him is Mrs. Hud-son, who is looking up at you. The last figure is the one you're riveted on—Jack Uden stands behind Mrs. Hudson and the policeman, holding a revolver and still looking like hard, ready to flame, flint.

"Jack Uden," you say softly, and you see he is surprised that you recognize him.

"Samira," he replies.

You stand still for a moment, riveted, debating on the merits of trying to run up the few steps between you and the sitting room, but Jack shakes his head.

"Woul'n 't try it. Come dow' 'ere, slow. Don' make a soun'."

You obey him, moving noiselessly down the stairs. The gun is not aimed at you; it is pointed at Mrs. Hud-son. If it was in your own direction, you would chance dashing up the steps, but you will not gamble with someone else's life—not again, not ever again.

When you reach the bottom, Jack Uden jerks his head, indicating that you should move next to Mrs. Hud-son. You comply.

"Righ'. Now." He pulls out two sets of derbies he has apparently taken from the prostrate Yarder. "Samira, Mrs., I'd 'pprecia'e it if yer would drag the Sergean' in ter the ki'chen."

"Drag him?" Mrs. Hud-son asks, standing up.

"I'd do it meself, but I don' thin' I can trus' yer 'nough ter le' go of the gun."

Taking a deep breath, you bend and pick up one of the Yarder's arms and Mrs. Hudson reluctantly takes the other and somehow the two of you manage to drag the tall, heavy man into the kitchen.

"Nice wor', ladies." Jack smiles approvingly and Mrs. Hud-son scowls. He winks at her. "Righ'. Now, Samira, Mrs., jes' back up."

You do so, watching as he takes out two pairs of shackles he probably stole from the Yarder and then rolls the man onto his side, quickly handcuffing his arms behind him. The policeman lets out a faint sigh at the first movement, but is then silent. Despite your negative experiences with lawmen, you feel sorry for him.

Jack swivels the gun onto Mrs. Hud-son and tells the unhappy landlady to hold out her wrists. Deftly, with the practice of one used to such acts, Jack puts one end of the cuffs around her right wrist, takes her chain under the unconscious detective's, and then hooks the second shackle onto her left wrist so that she is bound to the insensible man.

Mrs. Hud-son, who has been maintaining an injured silence, glares at the man before she glances at you. "What…about Samira?"

Her voice is genuinely worried and you give her what you hope is a plucky, reassuring smile that you are sure has probably come out as a grimace.

"She's stayin' wit' me."

"Leave her be, don't—" The landlady who so reminds you of your mother falls silent as he pulls a long handkerchief out of his pocket and comes toward her.

"No movin' Samira." He puts the gun in his side pocket and begins to tie the handkerchief inside Mrs. Hud-son's mouth and around the back of her head. For a moment, you debate, and then you decide to take the risk—the gun is not aimed at either of the other people and you are the only one who could possibly be injured. It always comes down to you.

Thus you lunge for Jack just as he finishes tying the gag, bowling him over and reaching for the gun in his pocket.

Jack Uden's momentary surprise disappears quickly and he draws back his hand and backslaps the bottom of your face, reopening your split lip, which had been almost entirely healed.

The blow is a strong one and you hear Mrs. Hudson's muffled gasp as you fall back with blood on, in, and around your mouth.

"Don' try nuffin like tha' 'gain or I'll hafta 'urt yer _or _som'ne else ev'n more," he says meaningfully, intuiting that you are more worried for others than for your self.

Pulling his gun out of his pocket, Jack then trains it on you as he gets to his feet. He gestures with the revolver for you to stand, so you do, wiping some of the blood away from your lips.

"Damn, di'n't mean ter bus' yer lip," Jack mutters. "Still, yer shoul'n't 'ave trie' nuffin'."

"What you want here, Jack?" You ask calmly.

He squints at you with an odd look on his face when you speak in such a calm tone and then makes sure that the front door is secured.

"Ter talk ter yer. Yer an' yer two frien's." Jack Uden replies. He moves closer to you and your posture goes rigid with trepidation. He merely clears his throat. "Turn 'roun'."

His face is blank, an empty place waiting to be filled. What _would_ fill that face?

"You re-mem-ber Bao Yu?" You ask softly, watching for his reaction.

His face blanches and his expression, for a moment, is so openly wounded and agonized that he may as well have flinched physically. Perhaps he was like you and Lian were with Bao Yu. Maybe he too is now one solitary sad soul where there once were two. You will not let Mr. Holmes and Dr. Wat-son be separated; you will not let bad things happen to them, even if you _can_ somewhat sympathize with Jack Uden even as you dread what he will do.

"I said turn 'roun'!" His anguish is gone, replaced by annoyance.

Uneasily, you do so—you would much rather face whatever is coming, not have your back to it.

"Mrs.," he turns to Mrs. Hud-son. "Make sure yer don't try an' yell 'round tha' gag, now, else som'one'll en' up 'urt."

He comes close behind you and slips his arm around your waist. You cringe.

"Easy, gel," Jack says softly. "I'm jes' bein' careful."

Frowning, you wonder what he means until you feel the metal tip of the gun pressing under your jaw.

"Righ'. Now we go join yer frien's."

He is using you as a shield—a barrier, a trap, you are always a trap, why is it you are always a trap?

Although…Jack _is_ taller than you, and so you think perhaps Mr. Holmes or Dr. Wat-son can shoot over you, but when you turn your head slightly you see that he is sort of hunching down behind you. Always, the men are prepared to duck so that you take the brunt of the damage, of the blame.

"Go on." He prods you and you take short little steps out of the kitchen and toward the staircase.

At least he is leaving Mrs. Hud-son out of it, but you wish fervently that he was not involving the doctor and Mr. Holmes as well. What is it he really wants?

"Slow," Jack cautions when you reach the stairs. You step up and he remains on the floor. _One down_. You step up again, feeling him stepping up behind you. _Two._

"An' silen'." He adds, and then, "Sorry 'bout this, Samira."

_Three._

You continue up the steps slowly and carefully, the gun under your jaw and his arm firmly around your waist. _Four_.

_Please, please let no bad happen_, you think. Jack wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you. _Five._

_Six. _Maybe the detective and the doctor have realized something has happened._ Seven_. Surely they have...surely they will be a little prepared…

_Eight_. Even if that is so, what will happen? _Nine_.

Jack is armed and the gun is on you, so maybe he does not plan to hurt the doctor or the detective… _Ten._

But what all is he here for? _Eleven_.

"Jes' a li'l bi' more." _Twelve_.

You make it up the last five steps and halt when Jack abruptly stops outside the door to the sitting room.

"Open i' slow an' wai' fer my nudge before yer star' forwar'."

You reach for the doorknob and swing the door open. Jack pushes you forward, and then you are inside the room.


	5. Day Eight: Part Five

**Author's Note: **Okay so I'm home. Just got in after driving all day--from 7 am yesterday till now (with potty and gas breaks of course)--so I am rather tired. There weren't any wireless access at any of the stops I made so I thought I would update now before I fall into my bed.

(Besides, I'm waiting for my pillow to dry--the last place I stayed had bed bugs--eeeeek--so I'm cleaning everything before I bring it in.) Anyway, I'm glad to be home. I glanced at my email and at the front page and I can see I've got my work cut out for me reading all the updates! But I will (when I'm awake).

Thanks again for all your guys' support. It was a great help. (hugs everyone) Now I've gotta catch up with the site and up with the people on the site. :D

I would also like to say to any of you people living in America's New England states that you drive like maniacs. XD ;)

Neway, i hope you like this new addition. Please read and review! :)

* * *

Day Eight: Part Five

**Holmes**

Waiting for a large man and a slim woman to proceed the rest of the way up a staircase, listening to their footfalls, is rather trying upon one's patience. Especially when one knows that the lives of one's best friend, a young woman, a landlady, and a Scotland Yard Inspector may be resting upon one's shoulders.

I can tell from the sound of their feet that the man is tall and thick-set while the woman in front of him can only be Miss Samira Sakda, judging from the lightness of step. It is nearer and nearer to the time of action, and both Watson and I have already assumed our positions.

Normally, I would be quite pleased and even relieved to have Watson's invaluable assistance, but at the moment it is my hope that he will _not_ provide his accustomed help. It _should_ indeed be up to me. Unfortunately, while I have moved behind the door with the revolver ready, Watson, with characteristic selflessness, has placed himself in front of the insensible—and thus vulnerable—Lestrade and so far he refuses to move no matter what I hiss at him.

The couch Lestrade is on is in direct sight of the door to the sitting room and so I am more than a trifle uneasy at my Boswell's location. It is not as though he is recovered from his last misadventure and I shall do my utmost to ensure that he does not come to further harm. Especially as I feel responsible for having been unable to protect him in the first place.

Even though I have committed myself to these aspirations, at the moment I am unable to audibly argue the point with Watson as I have no wish to alert our attacker and the good doctor _knows_ this and is using it to his advantage. He is pretending not to understand me as I whisper instructions for him to move and get under cover.

Shrugging, he feigns ignorance of my directives and I sigh, knowing that he does not desire to leave his place in front of Lestrade and moreover, wants to ensure my own safety by being a distraction to the person who enters the rooms with Miss Samira. It is a wonder, a _miracle_, that the good doctor survived the Afghan war, considering his 'never leave a comrade behind' principle.

Finally, the footsteps have made it up the stairs and I ready myself.

Samira enters the room; I can hear her faint, dainty footsteps. In the few seconds it takes her to move inside, I realize that my hypothesis was correct—her assailant is behind her, no doubt holding a gun to her head.

Watson, in his position in plain view of the door, naturally attracts the villain's attention first, especially as he gasps and says, "Samira."

It is no challenge at all to deduce from the good doctor's tone that she has been injured in some way.

"Don' move, Dr. Wa'son," a deep, thrumming voice says. "Sta' still."

Of course, with Miss Samira's life at stake, Watson doesn't move, but I can tell by the hard, set line of his jaw and his narrowed eyes that he is furious—no doubt because the man has already injured Samira and is _still_ threatening her, an innocent and a woman, at that.

"He is a-lone, doctor," Miss Samira says quickly. The man curses, then evidently—I cannot see them well from this vantage—either shoves the gun harder into her or injures her again in a different way because she takes in a quick little breath and Watson takes a small step forward.

"Scoundrel!" he exclaims.

"Min' yer tongue an' sta' still! I on'y wan' ter talk, but i' yer move wif tha' po'er, or yell 'gain, I'll 'ave ter 'urt Samira 'ere. Drop i', if yer please."

The poker clatters to the floor and Watson glares at the man, all anger and not a whit of fear or trepidation. "You have me at a disadvantage, sir—you know my name and the lady's, and yet you have not introduced yourself." His voice is a tight reining in of anger.

"Name's Jack Uden, Doc'or. Knowin' 'bout men like yer an' Mr. 'Olmes is par' o' my bus'ness. I'm guessin' the detec'ive is ou' lookin' fer clues, so 'o issat behin' yer?"

Watson doesn't reply, just crosses his arms, but Uden peers around him and gets a clear look at Lestrade. He gapes for a moment. "_Him_?"

"You're acquainted?" Watson asks, trying to keep the man focused on him and not in looking around the apartment, so that he will not realize where I am until it is too late.

"'E looks a bi' famil'ar, 's all…" Uden takes another few steps, Samira still held tightly against him.

It is almost time for me to act; he just needs to go forward a little further...

Watson again takes the lead in the conversation. "Well, Mr. Uden, I must suggest that you release Samira at once. She need not be the one you threaten, I should gladly take her place."

I swear silently—how dare he offer himself like that! His deuced chivalry and code of honor will always be the cause of much injury to him and infernally constant worriment to my self.

"Kin' of yer ter offer, bu' I'll keep 'er jes' the same, fer now." Jack Uden replies, continuing to edge forward.

Although it takes an exercise of will on my part not to immediately jump out, I hold my ground. I must wait until the precise moment.

"You are not too badly injured, Samira?" Watson asks softly.

"No. He on-ly hit me when I try to get gun—was my mis-take. You are well?"

"I'm fine."

"Now tha' yer all caugh' up, le's sit down ter wai' fer Mr. 'Olmes." He moves beyond the door.

Instantly I jump out, pressing the gun into his back. "No need!"

It is a risk for Miss Samira, but the man will not wish to kill the only person shielding him from my self. _Especially_ if he has anything to do with the men that so seriously injured Watson.

"Drop your weapon. You are outnumbered, sir," I state calmly but forcefully.

"I taint 'bout ter drop my gun. If yer kill me, I kill 'er." He says matter-of-factly. "'Sides, Dr. Wa'son taint armed an' so it's me an' yer. An' Samira, 'ere, 'o course."

Miss Samira again surprises me—her look of composure is a more complete disguise than Watson's, though they both have the same evident bravery written upon them. The difference is, I suppose, he values her life more than she does.

"I assume you have an agenda of some sort?" I finally ask, after the man remains silent for a long moment.

"Ter talk." He squints at the service revolver. "I'm not 'ere ter 'urt yer all."

"I should be more inclined to believe that if you had not savagely attacked the Inspector, trussed up our landlady, and taken a hostage," I reply.

"I 'eard of yer, Mr. 'Olmes, an' I di'n't wan' ter take a chance gettin' in o'er my 'ead. As fer '_im_," his jerks his head toward Lestrade, "'E threa'ned me firs'."

"Indeed." I raise an eyebrow.

"Loo', I'm no' 'ere on bus'ness. I'm 'ere jes' fer…pers'nal reasons, like. I wan'ed ter warn yer 'gain."

My finger is on the trigger of the gun against his spine, so it is quite unexpected when Jack Uden suddenly reacts, releasing Samira's waist and flinging a fist in reverse over his left shoulder.

It catches me square in the jaw, sending me momentarily backwards—the man hits like a bull, and I am used to heavy handed blows!

As soon as he sends me reeling, he spins around, Samira pulled roughly beside him, his gun aimed at me.

He has not counted on Watson.

My self-designated bodyguard springs, throwing his shoulder into Uden, who grunts and tries to level his gun on his attacker, but Watson's hands are on it already. Samira moves to help him just as do I, but Uden thrusts out with one hand and sends her flying into me, knocking us both to the ground and causing the gun to clatter out of my grasp.

The two men continue to struggle, Watson frantically fighting for the gun and Uden fighting against him, when finally, the Doctor gains the upper hand and has almost wrenched the gun from Jack's grasp, when Uden elbows him hard in the ribs, and then follows that with a punch to his side, making Watson gasp and instantly sink downward.

I am on my feet in an instant, fury writ upon my features as I lunge for the man, stopping short only when he raises the gun and points it at Watson.

"Hol' i'."


	6. Day Eight: Part Six

**Author's Note: **Well, I've gotten through a slight bit of the stuff that has piled up for me to read, respond to, etc, while I've been gone. Sorry if my notes seem out of it--i am lol.

Here's another update, specifically for KCS as she's leaving so soon after I arrive, and for everyone else who has faithfully been reading and reviewing. I really appreciate it.

But I'm still going to say, please read and review here because that is the reason I try and update so fast--for all of you who read me and take the time to review! Thanks a ton!

* * *

Day Eight: Part Six

**Holmes**

I freeze, my eyes twin slits of fury.

Watson has launched into a coughing fit and is on his hands and knees, palms flat on the floor, trying to breathe. He sounds genuinely in distress and I start to move over to him, but Uden says, "No, Mr. 'Olmes, don' move."

Samira has struggled to her knees and gives the man an insolent look. "I am going to help Dr. Wat-son, Jack. If you would shoot me, you must."

"Wha's wrong wif 'im?"

Before I can reply indignantly, she answers, "Brok-en ribs."

The young woman crawls over to my friend and I inhale as Jack Uden frowns at her, trigger finger clenching, but he allows her to approach him.

"Di'n't know yer ribs were bro'e, Doc'or," he says to Watson and then glances at me, seeming almost amused at my barely concealed anger. "Mr. 'Olmes, move o'er there near 'em, bu' no' too close, mind."

I comply, only because the weapon is still pointed directly at Watson. No doubt Uden desires that we should all be far from the gun.

Samira ignores both of us, rubbing Watson's back gently, her other hand on his shoulder. "Jack, can I get water?"

He hesitates; obviously—despite having held her captive, bloodied her lip, and threatened her—he has some sort of weakness for Samira. "Better no'."

I can only watch anxiously until finally Watson stops coughing, taking short little breaths, and clutches his ribs. I hope that—that _blackguard_ didn't seriously diminish the healing he's done…

"I'm…fine," Watson gasps, patting Samira's shoulder comfortingly and giving me a reassuring look. I let out a small breath.

If he has the energy to attempt to assure me, then he is not too grievously injured. Nevertheless, if Jack Uden did not have the gun pointing at my biographer, I would give the man an extremely sound thrashing. Earlier in the past week, I promised that I would treat everyone who had anything to do with Watson's condition with the same fierce, _sans-merci _attitude that they had with him, and Mr. Uden is no exception.

"Why do you do this, Jack?" Miss Samira asks intently.

Uden hesitates, shifting his weight, but he keeps his gun trained steadily on Watson. "I nee'ed ter talk ter ya, Samira. Ter warn yer."

"Yet you will shoot us?" The girl asks reasonably. I had the same thought myself.

"Only if I hafta," he replies, edging toward Watson's gun while keeping a steady eye trained on the three of us.

Finally he reaches the service revolver and kicks it far away from us.

"Si' down, the lot of yer."

Watson raises his eyebrows at me and we exchange a glance. Samira helps him to his feet—I frown and furrow my brows when I see that he is unable to straighten all the way and that he sways slightly—and the two of them sit in the armchairs by the fireplace. Reluctantly, I sit at one of the dining room table's chairs.

As soon as we are all seated, Uden visibly relaxes. Good. I shall watch and wait for him to make a mistake and then I shall make my move.

I glance at Watson, who looks haggard, but I can tell he is thinking the same thing and I shoot him a warning glance which he pointedly ignores. I can only hope, then, that his injuries or even Miss Samira will deter him from doing something equally foolish and brave.

"Righ'. Look. I'm 'ere to tell yer tha' Crawford's men go' a message from 'is par'ner. 'E's back early an' he wan's ter…meet yer pers'nally, Samira, yer an' yer two…frien's. Tha's one reason I came 'ere, ter tell yer tha'."

"And the other reason?" I ask.

Uden doesn't look at me but keeps his gun trained on Watson and his eyes on Samira. "Who killt Bow Yew?"

All three of us stare at the man.

"I tell you," Miss Samira begins. "She die of infection, from cuff—"

"Yea', but 'Oo pu' it on 'er?"

"Madame did, after we try and run night of fire."

"'Oo or'ered it, Crawford?" Jack has paled.

Samira tugs at her long hair, obviously thinking. "I…I no know for sure. I think he did, yes."

"But yer not sure."

"No."

"An' she uz chained after the nigh' of the fire when she tried ter escape?"

"Yes." Miss Samira glances over at Watson and I, frowning slightly, letting us know she has no idea what he is driving at.

"I paid for 'er, Samira, I paid Crawford for 'im to let Bow Yew go. Believe it or no', Crawford uz 'umane compared to 'is par'ner."

"Would that partner happen to be Reece Ward, Esquire?" I ask.

Uden sends me a sharp, guarded glance that lets me know that I have come to the correct conclusion after perusing my files.

Ward is suspected of being behind a great many of illegal trafficking rings, but he is nigh untouchable; Moriarty, without the finesse and without the entirely widespread influence. Still, in the buying and selling of anything on the black market, Ward most likely has his tentacles in it.

Even more notable, said Reece Ward, _Esq._ has also been under suspicion for a great number of murders—notably the butchering of entire families, either because they had seen something they shouldn't have or because someone in the family was what he deemed a traitor. Yet not once was the man held for more than a day. Either he is as slippery as the former Napoleon of Crime or, as I am inclined to believe, he has connections in high places.

"Yer did me a favor, Mr. 'Olmes, Dr. Wa'son, in killin' Crawford. I owed 'im fer direc'ly or indirec'ly killin' my gel. But don' expec' any 'elp. I taint stupid enough ter go af'er…him. Righ', tha's all, jes' know 'e'll be 'ere. C'mon, Samira, le's go."

Again Watson and I exchange a glance. He intends to kidnap her?

"Par-don?" Samira asks.

"Yer shoul' come wif me. Tha' is, I'm…I'm offerin' fer yer ter come…if yer wan'." This declaration is so unlike the coarse ruffian who threatened us that I blink rapidly, Samira looks puzzled, and Watson hides a smile.

"Pardon my saying so, but generally a gentleman proposes without wielding a gun," Watson says dryly.

Uden glares, but turns even redder, either in anger or embarrassment. "Its no' a prop'sal. Bow Yew uz my gel, an' we planned on marryin'…bu' she died. An' she was fon' of yer an' wan'ed me ter look in on yer from time ter time if'n somethin' ever 'appened. She'd wan' me ter take care of yer."

And by taking care of her that meant breaking into where she was staying and threatening her?

As if he can read my thoughts, Uden looks a little sheepish. "I kno' I bin a bit rough, but like I said, I 'eard of yer frien's an' I taint goin' to get caugh', not even fer yer, Samira. Bu' I _coul'_ keep yer safe."

"Jack…" Samira hesitates. "Thank you, for your…nice offer, but you could no trust me as I could no trust you. I first loyal to them," she gestures at us. "And you first loyal to you."

The man nods and I am glad to see that Samira harbors no illusions about the man. He might have a soft spot for her, but he would slit her throat rather than have his own marked for a noose, if I'm on the mark as to my assessment of his character.

"If it help," Miss Samira continues. "Bao Yu had laud-a-num on night she die. She was…no in pain, and no a-lone. I was with her."

Watson, having noticed that the man is mostly looking in my and Samira's direction, has moved slightly, but Uden instantly whips the gun back at him.

"Don' try it, Doc'or." Uden backs up so that he can keep us all in his view, but he addresses Samira. "Yer 'ave fam'ly?"

She winces and then shakes her head.

"Yer taint got an'one yer care fer?"

Apparently Miss Samira finds it necessary to tell the truth for she looks down, embarrassed, and again gestures to us. "Them. An' Mrs. Hud-son."

"So tha' sis'er of yers Bow Yew mentioned died, did she?" Uden asks the question with a curious look on his face.

"Yes."

"Righ'… well, I'll be goin'."

Jack Uden, no doubt anticipating trouble, backs up cautiously, but glances behind him to place the door. The moment he looks away, I hurriedly stand, snatch a glass from the table, and throw it with all the strength I possess. He will not escape so easily!

Unfortunately, my hurried aim is slightly off and it shatters across his upper chest rather than upon his head, but the surprise is enough to make him fumble with the gun and drop it, causing it to misfire, narrowly missing Miss Samira and causing Inspector Lestrade to fall off the couch as he jerks awake in surprise, adding to the general chaos.

In the same instant, Watson leaps upright just as a furious Uden grabs the end of the dining table and flings it in an extraordinary feat of strength, effectively causing me to stumble over my chair, fall, and become pinned beneath the table.

"Holmes!" Watson calls, worriedly.

"I'm alright," I growl, frustrated, as I start to hoist the table off of me—Uden is running for the door.

"Wha' the devil?" Lestrade moans blurrily from the floor.

Samira crouches next to me and helps me get the table upright just in time for me to look up and gasp in horror. Watson has started after the man and is unsteadily running after him, out of the room!

"Watson, don't!" I cry, my panic momentarily unrestrained.

* * *

Sorry for another cliffy! I really do love you guys. (ducks and runs) xD


	7. Day Eight: Part Seven

**Author's Note: **Another chapter for you guys and I've already started on the following one!

I put this up because the last place was a horrible place to end and I am not entirely evil... ;D

I hope you guys like it, let me know. :D

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Day Eight: Part Seven

**Holmes**

I fly out the door after my Boswell, only partially aware that behind me, Lestrade probably could use some attention—Miss Samira will take care of him, no doubt, and regardless, Watson is in the more immediate danger.

"Watson," I call again.

As I pause on the highest stair, I see the front door standing open and disappointment and fear tear through me at the thought of my Watson pursuing Uden even as he can barely stand upright.

"Holmes." The faint cry startles me and I rush down the steps…

Sure enough, Watson lies on the floor to the left of the stairs, in a position where I couldn't see him from above. My instantaneous feeling of relief upon seeing him disappears as I take in his pained expression and how labored his breathing is.

"Watson?" My voice has an unsteady timber to it, which has been an annoyingly frequent occurrence of late, but I do not concern myself with the fact as I rush over to crouch next to my biographer.

"'M…fine…" he whispers, trying to push himself up and falling back with a moan.

Gently, I help Watson into a sitting position, leaning up against the wall. I scan his visage rapidly, but I do not see any obvious new injuries, though his breathing is as strained and raspy as I have heard it in days.

"S-sorry…Uden…got out…the door. He's…n-not too…far ahead…if you run… you can…c-catch him," Watson apologizes in between deep pauses where he struggles to take a full breath.

"Forget about Uden, Watson," I snap. "What about _you_? What happened?"

When I find Jack Uden, and I _will_ find him eventually, I am going to pommel him. Slowly. Thoroughly. And I will enjoy every moment of it.

Watson manages a weak smile, still panting and clutching his ribs. "I-it's not…too dire… H-he waited out…outside the door…slammed into my ribs." Wincing, he coughs for a long moment before raggedly sighing. "Uden ran…after that. I…I could not…follow him."

"You shouldn't have tried to in the first place! What were you thinking? _Were_ you thinking?"

Wincing at my outburst, Watson closes his eyes. Instantly, all my anger at his ill-planned, foolish, brash behavior deflates. Making certain I calm my tone, I ask, "How seriously are you injured?"

"I-I'm alright…" The good doctor opens his eyes again in time to catch my dubious look at his words. "Well, I've been…better." He starts to chuckle, but ends up coughing.

"Easy, Watson," I murmur, putting my hand on his shoulder.

"I think…I think one of the…cracked ribs…is fractured now…but, it hasn't…hasn't perforated…the lungs." He is still panting between words and he announces that last bit as though I am supposed to feel relieved. The last thing he needed was a freshly broken rib along with everything else! "If you're not…going after Uden…go into the kitchen…"

I raise my eyebrows.

"Mrs.…Hudson," he explains. I'd almost forgotten about her!

"You'll be alright on your own for a moment?" I ask, standing up to close the front door tightly and lock it.

He nods, and then seems to regret the movement, for he puts his hand to his head.

"Head hurting, too, dear fellow?"

"A little."

"Just so you know," I say as I approach the doorway to the kitchen. "You are finished for now, Watson—you shan't see any more action today." I raise a hand as he begins to protest. "I'll call another doctor for Lestrade _and_ for you. Do not argue with me. You're going straight to the couch."

"I think…it's occupied," Watson replies dryly.

"Well, back to my room, then," I say over my shoulder as I walk into the kitchen, hoping our long-suffering landlady has not suffered seriously from Uden's visit.


	8. Day Eight: Part Eight

**Author's Note: **Another update. Yay!

Oh, there is mild language in this, I've been forgetting to warn you all. And sadly Holmes, Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Gregson do not belong to me. Samira, Lian, Bao Yu, Sergeant Greene, and the bad guys do. (BTW, go to my profile if you want to see some rough sketches I did of Samira and Lian while avoiding sleep at the bedbud hotel. I've got links up.)

Thanks for reading and reviewing you guys, I really appreciate it. Oh, I found this marvelous source of English Victorian slang words and so I've put in a few. A Bludger is a violent criminal, to nobble is to inflict 'grevious bodily harm' so to be nobbled is to have 'grevious bodily harm' inflicted on you, and the word pissed means drunk. That's all.

Pretty please read and review and let me know how I am doing? :D

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Day Eight: Part Eight

**Lestrade**

My bloody head _hurts_. And I'm on the floor. A slightly grimy floor.

Wait, this isn't the Yard…where?—is this _Holmes'_ sitting room?? What the deuce am I doing here and why do I feel like I've been run over by a Brougham carriage?

Obviously I didn't share several casual drinks with the unofficial detective, get utterly pissed, and then pass out, so what's happened? And why do I feel so utterly, thoroughly nobbled?

I attempt to rise, but pain pounds through the back of my head and my right eye throbs, so I desist all movement, thinking that perhaps I should stop asking so many questions and just lay here for a moment.

A case. This has to have something to do with a case. It always _does_ have to do with a case whenever I'm lying near dead on the floor—a case or Sherlock Holmes, and judging from the fact I'm in his rooms, I'd say _both_ are probably a factor.

My head still feels so muddled, I can't quite recall anything other than the fact that I wish that Gregson had been assigned this ruddy case, whatever it is. Not that I'd like to see the man near dead, but a beating or two might reduce some of his haughtiness. I doubt it, though. He'd probably still denigrate me while lying on the floor.

I frown, thinking hard for a moment…there was something that woke me up. What was it? Then I remember…

A gunshot!

Instantly I bolt upright, but the room revolves around me and my vision darkens and I know that I am going to be reacquainted with the floor, when two small hands are suddenly holding me up and then leaning me against the base of the settee.

I let out a rather pathetic groan, keeping my eyes closed, trying to stop my brains from oozing out my ears.

"Do no get up, sir, sit back, rest moment," a feminine quiet, accented voice says softly.

I open my eyes—no, my _eye_; the right one won't budge—and see a young Asian woman.

Now I remember—I was in the alley, that Bludger pounded me, there was the ride here with Greene and then coming in here and…nothing after that.

But what about the gunfire? I try again to sit up, but the pounding in the back of my head begs me to reconsider. Out of habit, I reach for the side pocket of my jacket, but I can't find my Iron. I check the other pocket, just in case, and find my truncheon—Greene must have shoved it in there—but my revolver is gone. Blast.

"Please, do no hurt your self, I will help." The young lady, who is apparently stronger than she looks, kindly assists me with her good arm as I get to my feet. It is a lucky thing she _is_ more resilient than her thin, bruised figure demonstrates because abruptly I am leaning heavily into her.

She helps me to the settee and I sit gingerly, making certain I do not lean back all the way so that my injury isn't aggravated.

"There was a gunshot?" I ask with my usual, bleary, I've-just-been-assaulted tone of voice that I generally have upon awakening, except that this time I really _have_ been assaulted. I've heard us Yarders called Crushers, but at the moment, I think I'm being _crushed_ rather more often then I am doing any crushing…

A look of worry flutters across her face. "Mr. Holmes and Dr. Wat-son are aft-er man that hurt you." At my no doubt astonished expression, she adds, "He was here, but do no worry, no one was shot."

Her statement has given me more questions than answers, but my head is aching so severely that I can't think straight.

I was by the docks. I was attacked. I came here. My attacker followed me? I start to reach back and feel my head injury, but the young woman's thin, pale hand stops mine.

"Do no touch, let me look." She pulls out a cloth napkin and dips it in a discarded water glass, then gently dabs my injury. "Stitches did no come out," she murmurs.

"Tha's good," I sigh with a slight slur.

Hold on. Stitches? I needed stitches? At what point, exactly, did I receive stitches? What _else_ did I miss while I was unconscious?

Bugger. This has not been the best of days and I know I'll never hear the end of it at the Yard. Unless you're honestly near death, in which case everyone is extremely solicitous, injuries are fair game for a thorough taunting.

"Sir, I am sorry, I have no given you my name." She has a shy, nervous way of pausing between every few words that is actually fortunate for me—I can scarcely concentrate on anything what with this headache. "I am, Samira Sakda. Please to name me Samira. You are, Mr. Le-stra-de?" she asks, pronouncing my name slowly and carefully like 'luh-straw-d.' Close enough—everyone says my name differently anyhow.

"Yes, miss. It's a pleasure to meet you," I say, feeling slightly ridiculous exchanging social graces with a young woman while I'm half out of my wits and Holmes and Watson are out chasing _my_ quarry.

If I thought I could stand, I'd go after them. Holmes may think I don't mind not being the one to actually capture the thief so long as I get the credit for it, and I'll admit there may be a thread of truth to that—who doesn't like to see a job through to the finish and get a chance to maybe outshine Gregson?—but I really would prefer to, at the least, play an active part in the apprehension.

"It may be that, you should lay down…"

I turn toward her, about to thank her for all of her help, when she lets out a gasp and stares down at my coat with something akin to fear.

I glance down—she's looking at my badge and my truncheon. I'm an Inspector and thus am plainclothes, but having a badge when you walk by the docks is a deterrent for being mugged or attacked—in most instances, except, naturally, my own—and I always keep a truncheon handy. Miss Samira Sakda scoots several inches backward, putting some distance between my self and her.

I blink—I may not be a great charmer of the ladies', but they are not generally repulsed by or afraid of me. Do I really appear in that bad of condition?

But she was only afraid when she saw I'm a Yarder, my sluggish brain counters. Apparently, Dr. Watson—I _hope_ it was Watson, anyway—dosed me with some morphine and that isn't helping me think. Surely Miss Samira Sakda is not wanted for a crime? My instincts—fuzzy as they are at the moment—tell me that she is not a bad woman, so why is she leery of the law? Unless…could she _really_ be the girl I was looking for?

"You are Yarder?" Miss Samira Sakda asks. I really need to ask Watson and Holmes about her, if she _is_ the same girl she might be a help to the case.

"Yes, miss," I reply, wincing as another jolt of pain burrows through my head.

At my grimace, her look softens, and she gathers a small blanket and folds it. "Here." Softly, she pushes me back and I anticipate the pain I'll feel when my wound hits the sofa, but she places the folded blanket under my neck so that I am reclining but my injury doesn't touch the back of the settee.

"Thank you," I say.

She nods, but her face is still slightly drained of color and she is still occasionally glancing at my truncheon. Her untrusting, half afraid look is making me feel guilty—an extremely uncomfortable feeling, so I clear my throat.

"Erm," I say. Oh yes, Lestrade, brilliant beginning. "I'm an Inspector with Scotland Yard. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson occasionally assist me in solving a case."

Again Miss Sakda—Samira, she said to call her—nods, but she's still looking at me warily, as if waiting for me to lunge at her or to make a fatal mistake. Really, I get enough of that feeling from Holmes, though naturally he isn't frightened of me. I wish the devil that he was!

"So, uh, you're a client…?" This headache and morphine-induced haze are not exactly conducive to my making great conversation.

"I am Mrs. Hud-son's new maid," she replies evasively, but politely.

"Ah. Well, um…" I shift, trying to think of how I can let her know I'm not really all that terrifying. I'd also like to tell her that if she has any information about Miss Fairchild's death or was a witness to it and is afraid of the killers that I myself will protect her. Either of those two situations are more likely the case than her being an accomplice to the murder, I should think. Again I change positions and the ruddy truncheon pokes into me and I tug it out of my pocket in frustration.

Miss Samira flinches and hurriedly stands. "If you are well enough, Mr. Le-stra-de, I am going to look for Mrs. Hud-son."

I've barely managed to nod when she practically runs out of the room. Another sterling example of my charm.

What the deuce did I do to scare her so? I start to stand, to follow her and perhaps apologize, but I feel lightheaded and end up falling back onto the couch.

Perhaps I'll just close my eyes a moment…


	9. Day Eight: Part Nine

**Author's Note: **Phew, I finally finished this. I'm still not happy with this chapter but I don't think I ever will be... I just don't like something about it. Erg.

Anyway, life has been busy lately so I haven't yet caught up with stuffies, so ignore my hecticness/randomness/zombieness.

So. Here's another chapter. I hope you like, please do let me know what you think. :D

Oh btw, I used some more Victorian slang. John (poor Watson!) means a male that's bought a prostitute. Ladybird and Singsong girl are both words for prostitute. A Blue Bottle is slang for any member of Scotland Yard. I think that's all of it.

Thanks for sticking with me and reading! (hugs all)

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**Samira**

You come to an abrupt halt just outside of the sitting room's exit, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. All right. So, he is a Yarder and, more than that, he has a cudgel, just like the one that killed Lian, just like the one that took away her face…

But Mr. Le-stra-de did not kill her, he is not the one; you would know, you would _feel_ it if he was. Besides, he is injured and you should not have left him. Of course, it is true that you _would_ like to see Mrs. Hud-son and make certain that Dr. Wat-son and Mr. Holmes are well, but Mr. Le-stra-de was not looking too steady when you fled the room... Taking a deep breath, you peer inside and see that Mr. Le-stra-de is half off the couch, his legs hanging off and his eyes closed, so you rush back inside.

"Sir?" You ask tentatively. For a moment, you do not move.

In the days when you were…still property, it was a frequent occurrence that the men in your life, the buyers, the Johns, would act harmless in order to hurt. More than once you have experienced men that feigned slumber, drunkenness, and even feigned that you had seriously wounded them in your struggles, all so that they could take advantage of you. These sorts of traps have long been part of your life, so naturally you are wary of them, but you still decide to approach the Yarder.

He did not seem cruel, and while he does not seem as guileless as Dr. Wat-son, he was never crass, and besides, he _is_ genuinely hurt. Gently you place a hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Le-stra-de?"

He moans, mumbles something like, "notonduty."

"It is Samira, I am helping you," you say softly, crawling onto the settee and putting your arms under his shoulders to pull him. When his upper body is mostly on the settee, you wriggle out from under him and then you pick his legs up, one at a time, and place them on the sofa. Now all that is left for you to do is to roll him over so that his head injury isn't pressed against anything.

Gingerly guarding your injured wrist, you prepare yourself. For a small, skinny man, he is heavier than he appears. It is good that you are used to rolling inert men over—off you, away from you, off of Bao Yu, onto the floor—but at this point your wrist is aching so it takes you a few tries. Finally he is on his side with a pillow beneath his head. The wooden truncheon glistens menacingly lying between him and the back of the settee and you pick it up gingerly and drop it on the floor.

A flurry of raised voices comes from downstairs and momentarily distracts you, but when there isn't a gunshot or any other outbursts following, you once more focus on the Yarder. He has started to frown in his sleep, deeply, and he looks as though he might be trying to wake up.

"It is all right," you whisper. "You are well." Deciding that you may as well finish the job, you pull off his shoes, exposing grey socks. The left sock has a hole in the top—he must not be married. He grunts, as if he can sense someone looking at his modest footwear, and opens one eye, starting to sit up in alarm, but you instantly push him back down.

"Miss…S'm'ra?" He slurs.

"Shh," you reply. "Yes, it is Samira. You must rest."

Mr. Le-stra-de grimaces and you pat his shoulder reassuringly—you are a little less afraid of him. It is hard to fear someone when they seem so injured and when they have a hole in their sock.

"Did…I…do somefin…wrong? 'Gain?" He seems to realize how slurred and incoherent he sounds because his lean, expressive face is the epitome of frustration.

"No, you did no wrong, I should no have left."

He closes his eyes briefly, trying to hide a wince. "But…you sheemed—seemed…frigh'ened…"

It is your turn to frown, to consider him. His expression is as earnest as it can possibly be considering that he is drugged, confused, and concussed. "It is nothing," you whisper, but he again frowns at you.

"Please," this comes out as 'pleashe.' "Wha'…did I do?"

Inhaling, you decide to tell him the truth. "Is no you. Yarder murdered my lit-tle sister. With…with cud-gel."

His good eye widens and he struggles to sit upright so that you have to use both hands to restrain him. In his shock, his slur has receded. "A Yarder? _Killed_ your _sister_?"

"Shh, I should no have said," you falter. "I know it was no you."

He ignores this, either extremely one tracked in his thoughts because he is injured or perhaps he is always like this. "But a Yarder? One of us? _Killing_ a girl? You're sure?"

You nod, finally managing to get him pushed back down. You wonder if perhaps you really are bad luck—everyone around you keeps getting hit on the head. The poor man is concussed, you should have held your foolish tongue.

"Wuz shere…" He pauses, concentrating on his words. "Was there an inquest? Chharges filed?" Mr. Le-stra-de suddenly reminds you, in a strange way, of Mr. Holmes. It's something about his determination, you suppose, or his stubbornness. The man has gone into what you imagine is 'Yarder' mode and you fervently wish that you had not answered his question, that you had ignored him.

"No. Lian was made to be…ladybird, singsong girl, slave. She beaten to death, people there say it po-lice man. No one miss her, no one care, but for me."

"I care." He replies. "The-the whole idea ish…ish obscene." He seems genuinely upset and winces as his enthusiasm apparently aggravates his headache. "Didya see the man?"

"Why you want to know? Why you ask questions? You should rest, I should not have spoke."

He seems utterly put out and indignant at your response, which is a hard look to maintain when one is injured, lying on one's side, concussed, and shoeless. Yet somehow he pulls it off.

"I'mma Yarder. 'S my job. I'm currently invess-invesh—lookin' into a murder," at this statement he gives you a curious once over, "but as soon as…" He pauses to take a breath. "As I feel a bit more…alive…I'll take down your informashion and have your sister's death looked into."

You glance at him and hold his gaze for a long moment. Mr. Le-stra-de shifts, embarrassed.

"You would…look for killer of Lian?" Your voice is carefully, utterly, devoid of hope, but you can feel your eyes soften. Even if he does not follow through with this declaration, which he probably will not, the offer is a kind one.

"Of course."

"Because it is job?"

"Issa right thing to do. Not alla us Blue Bottles're cruel," he says, his voice fading with the effort of maintaining conversation.

"He has one eye."

"What?" Lestrade just looks at you and you blush. Your mouth ran away with you again. You must get a hold of yourself, he will most likely not really look for her killer, he was only being kind.

"Lian…Lian stab man's eye out when he, ah, when he try and force her."

"Ah. Well. That'll be a good place to start. O' course, iffa man _is _one of us, I hafta say bein' a Yarder is tough, there're…lotta one eyed ex-Yarders… Place ta start'd be…records…"

He is nearly asleep again and you smile down at him. "I think…I think it may be you are good at your job."

"You're…the only one…thinks so," Lestrade mutters.

There is silence between for a long moment and you think he may be asleep. "Thank you," you whisper.


	10. Day Eight: Part Ten

**Author's Note: **I'm alive, I promise! Sorry for the long delay between updates, I've been pretty ill for a long while now. I'm finally home and I thought that while I was feeling up to it I'd post another chapter. Sorry the wait was so long! Also, sorry if replies/messages aren't forthcoming from me yet. I'm not 100 percent.

I do hope you like this next bit. Thanks for everyone's kind wishes and thoughts while I've been ill. (hugs everyone) (don't worry im not contagious) xD

And, as always, thanks for the reviews and for reading this! :D

Oops forgot to put in comments about the slang words. gatter is beer, rookery means slum, a flat is an easily decieved person, glocky means half witted.

_UPDATE:_ Now see my profile for a sketch I did of Sgt. Tommy Greene! :)

* * *

**Day Eight: Part Ten**

**3rd Person/Tommy Greene**

Sergeant Tommy Greene has a headache and he feels like he's been too deep in the Gatter. Way too deep. Perhaps he's climbed in a barrel of it.

"There, Mrs. Hudson…" A masculine voice says, pausing to take a ragged breath. "Your wrists…should heal just fine."

"I'm more worried about you, doctor," a female voice replies. "Sit down now, sir, Mr. Holmes will be livid that you've been up."

Sergeant Greene frowns and opens his eyes. He's in a kitchen. A small, but nice kitchen. So, he's not in the Rookery, but where _is_ he?

"Oh, he's waking," the woman's voice says. As if to prove her wrong, his eyes close again of their own accord.

"Easy, sir," the out of breath and tired, but kindly voice says. "You've been…drugged. It's…normal to be…a bit bleary."

Greene again opens his eyes and realizes he's lying on the floor of the kitchen, with a bruised man crouching over him. He's been drugged? "Oh…the lady…I 'uz waitin' fer Inspec'or Lestrade—is 'e all right?"

"He's upstairs. I've…treated his…injuries."

"Yer Doc'or Watson?"

"Yes, sir; I am Dr. Watson and this good lady is Mrs. Hudson."

The woman smiles and bobs her head. Greene, relieved to hear about Lestrade, gives a crooked grin back. "I'm Constable Tommy Greene, pleased ter meet yer both."

Dr. Watson, who is unsteady on his feet and moving slowly, as if in great pain, crouches beside Tommy. "I couldn't find any…external injuries. _Are_ you injured… anywhere else?"

"No' that I know of, doc'or. She drugged me, 's all. I feel righ' flat, I do. She 'ad a flask, offered to give me a nip, an' tha's all I 'member."

"You shared a drink with an unknown woman?" Mrs. Hudson asked, surprised.

"I know 'er…leas', I've seen 'er around."

"You know her?" Dr. Watson asks, his voice eager.

Tommy shifts, his face turning slightly red. He's seen her before, around where he grew up, in a dubious area by the docks. She is most certainly a woman of what Tommy always heard called 'the poor woman's trade.' Mentioning where he used to live always makes him feel embarrassed, especially around proper ladies like Mrs. Hudson and gentleman like Dr. Watson. "Seen 'er 'round, 's all."

"That's…good…it may be a…lead…for Holmes to pursue." The doctor, finally convinced that nothing is wrong with Tommy, collapses back against the wall, looking drawn. Mrs. Hudson stands, scurrying over to the ice chest.

"You stay still, doctor," she orders. "And keep a good hold on that gun. If Mr. Holmes finds out you've been moving around the second he went for a doctor, he'll have both our heads. You were supposed to 'sit still—'"

"'And be ready…to shoot…at a moment's…notice'…I know." Watson finishes the sentence, managing to sound droll even as he can't get a breath. It's obvious they're both quoting Sherlock Holmes' directions.

"A lead?" Tommy asked dubiously, his still cloudy mind not moving as quickly as everyone else's.

"The woman…who drugged you…must've been connected to Uden." Finally, speaking seems to be too much for the man, who doubles over in a fit of coughing and clutches his ribs.

"Yer prolly think I'm glocky, bu' who the devil—pardon me, missus—is Uden?" Tommy rubbed the back of his head, feeling out of the loop.

"Not another word, doctor, I can't bear to hear you wheezing. You need to save your breath," Mrs. Hudson says, in a voice reminiscent both of a mother and a schoolmarm. Watson, who has already opened his mouth to respond to Tommy, closes it and leans back, smiling faintly despite the lines of pain on his face.

"As I understand it," Mrs. Hudson continues. "Uden is the man who attacked Inspector Lestrade. He is also involved in one of Mr. Holmes' current cases."

Tommy figures she's being purposefully discreet in revealing information, but he doesn't mind. She probably figures Mr. Holmes ought to decide who knows what about his cases and regardless, the Inspector'll fill him in if it's something he needs to know.

"Think I ought ter go after the lady?" He refers to all women as ladies, regardless of their class. "I know 'bout where she lives. She'll be goin' back there, 'ventually."

Again Dr. Watson opens his mouth but Mrs. Hudson sends him a glare.

"No talking now, sir." She says firmly. "And Mr. Greene, I think you ought to wait and ask the Inspector or Mr. Holmes that question."

"Righ' then. I ought ter stay an' look af'er yer and Lestrade anyway. Dun't look like—er, no offense meant, doc'or—like yer all ought to be left alone."

And so Tommy Greene makes up his mind. He'll stay, wait for the doctor and Mr. Holmes to arrive, and then talk it over with the Inspector. And then he'll go search out Meggie and ask her to help him find that lady. Clara, or something like that, was her name. Greene's mind is made up. It seems like it's important to hear what she has to say. He'll find the lady and talk to her, no matter what any one else says.

He could have no way of knowing what would happen when he does.


	11. Day Eight: Part Eleven

**Author's Note: **Still alive, and trying to make up for my last delay with another update. This note will probably be short--I've got a monstrous headache. I've written some more (obviously lol) but I've not been staying online for long periods of time, nor have I yet caught up with my replies/messages/reviews/readings etc. Sorry!

Well, after a long absence, we have Watson's POV again! I wanted to have him as a breather for the rest of us and a sort of buffer between the next bit of action that's coming up. (Which will, btw, be in Tommy Greene's POV). Again, thanks for all the kind thoughts. I love you guys. :D

Like I always say, thanks sooo much for the reviews and for reading this! :D

_**PS**:_ Now see my profile for a sketch I did of Sgt. Tommy Greene! :)

* * *

Day Eight: Part Eleven

**Watson**

I gingerly lean back in my chair, my entire body still aching but nothing so much as my ribs. Lestrade, upon my insistence—and with the help of another dose of morphine—is sleeping soundly on the couch, Samira and Mrs. Hudson are in the kitchen feeding the Sergeant before he leaves, and Holmes is standing nearby, glaring at me. In other words, things are back to some semblance of normalcy. I do hope another physician other than Dr. Michener eventually shall move into the area—he happens to be the closest at hand, other than myself—for he does seem to grate on one's nerves. Not to mention the fact that I do believe the man ought to see an ophthalmologist.

"You heard the doctor, Watson, you need to lie down," Holmes says.

I nod—that was one of few points I agreed with the doctor upon. "Just needed…to sit down a moment."

It's dashed annoying, not being able to catch one's breath. Broken ribs are such an inconvenience—I almost had Uden! I meet Holmes' stare and suppress a sigh—no doubt it would set me to coughing again—as I slowly get to my feet.

In an instant, my friend is by my side, offering me his arm even as he continues to scowl at me. He's still angry with me for going after Uden, then.

"You can lie in my bedroom."

I can tell by his tone that he is, indeed, still irritated with me, so I nod meekly in response, wary of the movement since my head is pounding. Perhaps I _ought_ to have allowed Dr. Michener to give me more than merely the smallest dose of morphine. No matter.

Holmes watches as I crawl into his bed after propping several pillows against the headboard. If I remain slightly upright, even whilst in bed, I can breathe. Standing nearby, Holmes is watching me with what most people would see as an impassive expression but one that I can tell contains a great deal of concern.

"You'll over exert yourself beyond repair, one of these days, dear fellow," he finally says, as I settle back on the pillows. At least he seems to have stifled his anger.

"You're hardly one," I pause to breathe. "To talk, Holmes."

"Be that as it may, Watson, you are going to do nothing but rest until I say otherwise."

I open my mouth to protest but when I see his hard, serious eyes, I wisely remain silent. I can always argue later, after all, should the need arise. "Very well, Holmes."

He gives me a firm look that lets me know he isn't fooled by my acquiescence, though he decides to drop the matter. "Do you need anything?"

"Just keep an eye…on Lestrade."

Holmes' thin lips curl into a small smile. "Hah! That is an exercise with which I am well familiar."

"His heart's in the right place," I say softly. "And I am honestly concerned about his head injury."

"If only you worried so much about your own," he replies. "Besides, I'm certain the Inspector will make a full recovery. Lestrade is, after all, _extremely_ hard-headed."

"A phenomenon that you, of course, have no experience with," I reply with a grin.

Holmes wavers between being insulted and amused, and settles for a wry laugh. "Naturally not." But he is smiling. "I'll make certain Lestrade is well. Now try and take a nap before dinner, won't you?"

I nod. It's somewhat trying how Holmes consistently goes after all the Yarders—if I didn't know better I'd say it was professional jealousy!—but I know that despite everything he is fond of Lestrade, at the least. Even if he nitpicks and complains and teases him so much that I generally have to go to the Yarder's defense. Though perhaps if Sergeant Greene sticks around, he'll help me. He seemed like a nice, eager young man, and it was refreshing to see someone concerned for the Inspector. Even if Lestrade wasn't in the mood to tolerate it. Poor Greene, snapped at by both an injured Lestrade and a worried Holmes. Speaking of which…

"You were unnecessarily rude…to Sergeant Greene, Holmes."

"That..." He pauses to think of a fitting word. "_Pup_ had no business asking about my case. If I desire the Yard's assistance, I ask for it, and if they need mine, they come to me. They do not poke their noses into cases with which they are not involved."

"Really, Holmes, he was quite polite. Besides…he merely asked about the man who attacked Lestrade… Surely, as a concerned coworker…if nothing else, he had the right?"

"Even Lestrade has not yet been filled in. I certainly wouldn't tell Greene before the Inspector."

"Inspector Lestrade was incapacitated. And the sergeant did tell us…that he knew the girl that drugged him…and where she lived."

"Yes and I told him to wait till tomorrow, when you are slightly more capable of defending yourself," he holds up a hand as I begin to protest, "and that I would accompany him to speak with her. He should have given me the address and description and let me take care of it myself."

Ah. So that's his real problem with Greene; the Sergeant didn't allow Holmes to have his own way and be in total control.

"You don't think…he'll go on his own?"

"He had better not," Holmes says harshly. His look softens when he meets my eyes, however, becoming almost gentle. Evidentially, I have not been entirely successful in hiding the discomfort I am feeling. "Enough talk, Watson. You need to get some rest. Call me if you have need of anything."

He strides out of the room and moments later, just as I close my eyes, he strides back in.

"Yes?" I open my eyes. Is something the matter?

"Do you think a little pipe smoke would wake up Lestrade?"

I smile, suppressing a laugh that would no doubt injure my ribcage. "Although I doubt it will be merely a 'little' bit of smoke, I daresay nothing short of more gunplay would wake up the Inspector."

"And it won't bother you?"

"No."

He nods and disappears out the door again. In a short time I smell the strong scent of his tobacco and I concentrate on that as I close my eyes. I would rather think of Holmes' smoking than anything else that is flitting through my mind—I simply cannot seem to shake this underlying feeling of unease that I have.


	12. Day Eight: Part Twelve

**Author's Note: **A short update for you guys.

We're going to be following Tommy Greene for a while. (You'll know why eventually. ;) ) Let me know if you like this writing style okay--I'm afraid I might have overdone it in here, but this is such a good oppurtunity to shed light on the world S and H lived in.

Slang: Gaffer is a nickname for Inspector that Constables and Sergeants used. :D (they also called Inspectors 'boss' and 'guv')

If I've missed any slang, let me know.

Hope you like this! Thanks for reading and reviewing! :D

PS) I forgot to mention in the last chapter, that the sketch I did of Sgt. Tommy Greene in my profile is just that--extremely sketchy. xD I did it while lying down and I'm still not satisfied with it but you get the general idea of what he looks like.

PPS) Yes, Tommy's official rank is 'Detective Sergeant,' since he's part of the CID with Lestrade. But in general, Detective Sergeant's were just referred to as Sergeants on a daily basis.

* * *

Day Eight: Part Twelve

**3rd Person/Tommy Greene**

Detective Sergeant Tommy Greene is feeling slightly cross as he picks his way through the refuse strewn thin lanes on the way to Meg's house. It's horrible to walk through this neighborhood on foot but not even the staunchest cabby would go far into the dockyard slums at night and even if one did, he'd merely get stuck in the cesspool of mud. The worst is that with the pack he's got slung over his shoulder—which is full of food that Tommy will pretend didn't cost him almost all of what's left of his pay and Meggie will pretend she doesn't need, though she'll take it anyway—he's off balance.

But that's not what's bothering him. Tommy is upset because he left Baker Street with hardly any more information than he came there with and he still isn't sure just what to ask the lady that drugged him. He'll improvise.

Moreover, Mr. Holmes, whose something of a legend with the young people at the Yard, was really rather rude. Always one to assume the best of people, Tommy Greene figures the 'unofficial detective' was probably just upset at having two injured men, a motherly housekeeper, and a half-starved maid in the house. Considering all that, Greene is ready to make an allowance for him.

Besides, the Gaffer's in good hands—Dr. Watson seemed like a nice, capable bloke even though he was half tuckered out himself—and Tommy had a piece of some darn good cake courtesy of Mrs. Hudson and Miss Samira before he left. Sergeant Greene would wager a great deal that the girl isn't really a maid, but it isn't his business and he's not the sort to question a lady at any rate.

Greene walks through the mud easily, with an air of confidence and familiarity, but he keeps one hand firmly on his lantern and the other in his pocket with a set of knuckle dusters on it along side his police whistle. He can't carry a gun and having a truncheon marks one as a Yarder. He's already stopped by his own modest flat to feed the cat and change out of his uniform. Then he went shopping. It's customary for him to stop by and give Meg food 'he had left over' to keep for herself and distribute to some of the girls that need it most.

No, Tommy's not going to Meg's as a Detective Sergeant. He's merely plain old Tommy Greene who grew up around here, whose father drank himself to death here and whose mother and sister died of consumption here. He joined the Yard at 17—he said he was 18—to get away from the place but he never seems to be able to leave entirely. He knows it, in and out, and he knows the people, both good and bad, and they know him.

Greene moves quickly through the seeming maze of close, narrow streets rife with life even in the evening, crowded with people that many of the upper class deem as 'the refuse of the water' or 'the water rats.' Hurrying past rows of leaning houses with their broken windows covered with paper and the full gutters in front of them, Tommy heads for one house in particular.

"Oi! You there," a man yells.

Tommy peers through the darkness and looks at the man who addressed him, and sighs in resignation. "'Ello, Barton," Greene says, nodding at the constable.

"That's _Constable_ Barton, Tommy. I'm on duty af'er all." The man is puffed up like a toad and Tommy wonders briefly how he's survived this beat—probably because he's involved in several back-hand deals himself. "What're you doin' here? This's my territory, an' it don't look like yer on duty."

"I'm not," Tommy replies. "I'm 'ere ter visit an old friend."

"Ah, that's right… You grew up here, didn't you?" Barton grins nastily.

"Yes," Greene responds in an even voice. "I did."

"It'd figure. There're lots of Irish in the Rookery's nests."

Greene feels a rare flair of temper. It was his Gran Da and Gram that came from Ireland—his father was born here and his mother was entirely English, not a drop of Irish in her. She's who he got his brown hair from, and his father gave him the freckles and green eyes. But his ancestry isn't what bothers him—it's the way Barton said 'the Rookery' with a sneer. The slums got that name was because the families that lived there were likened to rooks. Most birds occupy separate nests, but rooks are said to not have that distinction, just like the London poor often live without separate space for each family.

"Constable," Tommy says quietly. "Jes' 'cause I'm off duty doesn't mean I'm not a Sergeant." There isn't a threat in his words, just matter-of-fact calm.

Even so, Barton glowers. "I'm goin' to report that you're trying to steal my beat."

"I don't want to take over your beat, Constable," he explains patiently, thinking that Barton can _have_ this beat with his personal blessings. As long as he isn't corrupt. Which he probably is.

Barton snorts. "Well good day _sir_. Watch your back 'round here. It's dangerous."

He marches away.

Tommy shakes his head and continues the rest of the way to Meg's house. She'll know for sure where Clara—Cora?—is lodging. She knows the location of almost every one that lives in the area.

In his excitement to see the girls, he doesn't realize he's being followed.


	13. Day Eight: Part Thirteen

**Author's Note: **Here's another update.

Gaffer still means Inspector.

Other than that, I hope you like it. Thanks for reading and reviewing. 3

* * *

Day Eight: Part Thirteen

**3rd Person/Tommy Greene**

"You be car'ful, Tommy." A young woman, with her blonde hair pulled into a loose bun, stands looking at the off-duty sergeant with worry. The dress she wears is pale blue, worn cotton, but it is clean and expertly mended wherever it needs it and despite the faded dress and tired eyes, she is still pretty.

"I will, Meg," Sergeant Greene replies, giving a great, over-exaggerated sigh. The woman, Miss Meggie Worth, bats his arm playfully. The two of them grew up in the same household, their families sharing a single house with two additional families. Most people in this area of London had to share living quarters because they couldn't afford a place of their own.

Tommy and Meg aren't alone in the small room, which isn't unusual considering that she shares the house with her little sister and at least twenty other women. Several of them are crowded around the young man.

Since Tommy, Meg, and Meg's little sister Lillian are like kin, the other girls staying under Meg's roof don't mind flirting with the young policeman, and he doesn't mind flirting back although he's careful he's never taken seriously.

Greene is glad he came, despite what Mr. Holmes and the Inspector said. Meg, though she owns the house and charges the other girls rent—is a soft-touch and she's let several of the women, who couldn't afford rent this month, stay regardless. Tommy's brought money along with the food, which she accepts only because she considers him a brother and because she dearly needs it. The rest of the lodgers that aren't standing the sergeant are eagerly pouring over the sack of food he brought. Many of the occupants of Meg's house have never seen such a bountiful amount of food. He's glad to have brought some small happiness here—life in the Rookery is hard, especially for women.

He needs to tend to business now, though. When he spoke to the Gaffer, Lestrade was half insensible and unable to tell him much more except that he figured Uden was connected to the murder case Lestrade was investigating. When Tommy had expressed concern at the Inspector's health, Lestrade waved him away rather gruffly and muttered something that sounded like , 'go 'ome, lad, an' take a sup of somethin' strong for me,' but it had been hard to tell since he was slurring.

Sherlock Holmes had been no more forthcoming, except to warn him to stay away from Uden, who was, apparently, also involved in whatever case he was working on—and not to talk to Cora until tomorrow, when the unofficial detective could come with him. Bugger that; Holmes had refused Tommy's offer to stand watch at 221B—it seemed like they could use it—and if there was one thing Tommy hated, it was being idle.

Tommy forces himself back to the present, chatting amiably with the girls as he gets ready to leave. There is a tug on the bottom of his jacket and he looks down.

"Willya brin' more sweets nex' time, Tommy?" Lily, Meg's six year old sister, asks with her mouth full of peppermint stick.

"Lillian!" Meg scolds, but Tommy scoops the girl up in a hug.

"I will, Lily me luv. I'll brin' sweets fer all th' sweet ladies."

The other women in the room smile and simper and he grins before turning back to Meg. "Yer sure yer got enough fer the month? I 'ave a 'a Florin an' some pence—"

"Ya've done enough, Thomas." He frowns when she uses his full name—it always means he's in trouble. "Ya go an' talk to Cora, an' min' yer car'ful."

"Yes, Mum," he retorts cheekily.

"Get off wit' ya." She shoos him toward the door with a crooked grin.

He waves to all of them, tips his hat, tosses Lily a Florin the moment Meg turns away, and then he's out the door.

Immediately, Tommy heads straight to the ''orrid shack o' a 'ouse' as Meg put it, where Cora lives.

Suddenly, he hears a woman's cry. Running, he reaches the tiny hut where Cora is living in quickly. The first thing he notices is the door, which is standing part of the way open.

Warily, Sergeant Greene clenches his brass-knuckled fist, puts down his lantern, and charges through the front door. "Miss Cora?"

Tommy is a good Yarder—else he wouldn't have been promoted to sergeant—and so, when he sees the furniture smashed into pieces and one woman trapped beneath a dresser and the other prone on the floor, he does not pause to stare, he merely _acts_.

Slamming into the women's attacker, Tommy struggles to reach the knife in the man's hands.

The villain lashes out, cutting through Tommy's sleeve, but he doesn't let go, he draws his fist back and punches the man in the jaw as hard as he can. Reeling, the knife-wielder slashes out again, but the brass knuckles do their work when Greene crunches a left hook into the brute's side. Tommy can actually feel ribs crack under his fist and immediately the knife clatters to the ground. Taking now chances even as the man goes to his knees wheezing, Tommy skids the knife away with his boot.

"I give, I give," the man whimpers, collapsing and curling into a fetal position. His strength and confidence seem to have vanished as soon as he was disarmed and faced with someone stronger than himself.

In a fury, Tommy takes a long deep breath before commanding, "Dun't move."

Though from that blow—which opened Tommy's knuckles as well as broke ribs—he doubts the man could go anywhere any way. Nevertheless, the sergeant keeps an eye on him even as he moves over toward the women.

Cora is sitting up, pale with fright and trembling, one of her eyes already turning black and blue from where the blaggard hit her.

"Yer alrigh'?" he asks softly. She nods, so he moves to the other woman, pinned beneath a small dresser. He still watches the groaning villain even as he lifts up the flimsy piece of furniture.

"Miss," He says, gently helping the lady to her feet. "Are yer 'urt bad?"

"I fine," the woman whispers. She is Asian, and her thick accent reminds him of Miss Samira, but the young lady in front of him is not as strikingly pretty. Her face is more round, and she's shorter, less willowy than Mrs. Hudson's new maid, but there is another similarity in the wariness of the eyes. Greene looks over her and notes that she does not seem to be injured—the dresser was not very heavy, after all, just awkward.

"Yer ribs not 'urt?" Tommy asks.

"No," she replies. Cora hurries over to her and they stay in the corner of the room, picking through the debris as Tommy walks back to the downed man.

"Who sent yer?" Sergeant Greene is speaking now, not Tommy, for his tone is hard and his usually open face is cold. "Why'd yer do this?"

"'S jes' a job, mate," the man whines, cringing away when Tommy crouches nearby.

"I'm not yer mate an' I'm on'y goin' to ask yer once more. Who. Sent. Yer?"

The hired thug rolls over to look Tommy in the face and the Yarder notices for the first time that the man has several scratch marks from fingernails along his left cheek. Evidentially Cora or the other woman fought back. _Good._

"I…I guess yer coul' say I 'uz onna opp'site side of an ole bill."

Cora doesn't look surprised at this announcement, she merely continues pulling clothes from the wreckage along with the Asian girl, but Tommy simply stares at the man. An 'old bill' is generally the slang term for a 'bill' given to criminals by the police that states how much money it would take for the Watch to turn their back on an illegal activity.

"You mean you were paid by a Yarder." His tone is strangely flat at this statement.

"Yeah."

"Ter rough Cora up?" Tommy has come to the realization that she was hurt in order to prevent her from talking to him.

The man manages to look slightly guilty through his thick beard and the layers of dirt and grime. "To. Er. Make sure she din'nt talk."

"To _kill_ her?" Tommy roars.

"No no," the man said quickly. "Ter hurt her real ba' an' scare er."

"Who paid you."

"Yer know wha' he'd do if I said…?"

Tommy, as much as he dislikes the woman-beater in front of him, would not injure a surrendered, beat-up person, but the ruffian in front of him doesn't know this. "No worse'n wha' I'll do if'n yer don'."

"Barton."

The young sergeant feels a sinking sensation in his gut. The crooked constable had sent a tail after him, the tail had heard what he was planning to do, and rushed off to silence Cora before he got to her. But how did Barton connect to Uden? Because he had to. Otherwise, why bother?

"And how do yer connect' ter Uden?"

The man squirmed some more but after Tommy casually shined his brass knuckles on his jacket, he acquiesced. "Ev'ry one connects ter Uden. He's—"

"What? What is he?" Other than a right bastard, Tommy thinks.

"He works for a…importan' bloke. Tha's all I kin say."

Tommy turns back to the women. The Asian is watching him with undisguised distrust.

"S'all righ'," Cora says. "I know 'im. 'E's a frien' of Meg's." Tommy smiled a little; everyone knows Meg. She turns to Tommy. "I'm sorry I drugged yer."

"You're sure yer both all righ'?"

Cora nods. "I on'y was hit once. The furn'ture was wot got knocked 'round."

"What was this about?" He is indirectly asking for information, and thus indirectly for her help, and everyone in the room knows it.

"E said yer were comin' an that if I talkt to yer I'd end up like this room."

He inwardly cringes. The woman might have drugged him, but she didn't injure him seriously, and in Tommy's book, one does not lay a hand on any lady or threaten one. Ever. "If you—"

She shakes her head. "I can't help yer. You can't protect me if I do. I'm not sayin' nothin'."

He's in murky waters. He has absolutely no idea if the information she has is valuable. But he's off duty and he isn't ready to arrest her any way. "If you'll tell me, I swear I _will_ protect you—"

Cora laughs mirthlessly. "You 'eard 'im," she gestures to the glaring thug. "The Yard's par' of it."

"Not alla the Yard," Tommy says with all the assurance of youth and a man who believes what he is saying.

Cora merely looks at him, but her eyes soften a little. She's looking at a boy with principles. How he ended up with them after growing up here, she'll never know.

"You Yarder?" The Oriental lady asks, her eyes narrowing.

"'E grew up 'ere, 'e's a good 'un, Li, I swear't," Cora says. And then suddenly she asks, "'Ow old're yer?"

As always when he is embarrassed or in an uncomfortable situation, Tommy flushes. "Twenty and one."

She raises an eyebrow.

"In a few months," he adds in a mumble.

"I'm jes' shy o' twen'y-six. Mebbe in a few years you'll understan' that not everyone is as decen' as yer are. I'm sorry I 'ad to 'elp Uden drug yer, but I look af'er meself firs'. I can't 'elp yer." After a moment, she asks. "Was anyone…inside hurt?"

It takes him a second to realize she's asking about what happened at 221B. "You mean when you drugged me so Uden could get in?" She nods and he decides the truth would only hurt her. "No, but Uden had jes' beaten a da—" He stops mid-curse. "Er, _really_ good Yarder an' he needs ter get 'is," he replies, picturing Lestrade's bloody face. "Why did you 'elp 'im, Cora?"

She eyes him for a long moment. "Me an 'er," she points to the Oriental woman. "We both run from somethin'. Uden knows wha' an' where. I did wha' he said 'cause he'd reveal us if I din'nt."

Her voice is bitter and Tommy briefly feels some hope that she might testify against him if promised immunity and protection. "I coul' get yer to safety a'—"

Again she laughs. "Look at this place an' see the Yard's kinda _protection_."

Greene winces. "So yer won't tell me anythin' and won't make a' official statement."

She shakes her head.

Still he hesitates. "'E knows where yer live. If yer won't come with me, won't yer at leas' stay with Meg 'til things blow over? This place's wrecked, anyway."

"He knows 'ere she lives, too."

"But there're more people 'round there. 'Sides, 'er 'ouse is under _my_ protection. I 'ave people look after it when I'm not 'ere. Miss Li, you'd best go with her."

"I go with you," the Asian says to Cora.

"All righ', Tommy, bu' I still won't say any more."

He gives in momentarily—she's at least proved what he thought—Barton is crooked and connected to Uden. "Lemme walk you ladies there." He turns back to the crook. "Up we go."

He lifts him and puts the man's arm around his shoulder. He's going to walk them to Meggie's and then take this crook in.

"Yer turnin' me in?"

"You rather I han' yer o'er ter Uden or Barton?"

The man shakes his head emphatically.

Both women pack a small carpet bag, they leave. As soon as he sees these two safe, and the man is in jail, he feels like finding Barton and having a 'chat.'

"Is there an' one I should warn, in case 'e tries ter get ter yer through family?"

"No." Cora replies.

"I have no one now," the other woman says, raw sorrow in her voice.

"Me eider," the criminal whines. Everyone ignores him.

"I'm sorry, ladies," Tommy says, and means it. Both women look at him in surprise. "I los' my family too. Meg an' Lily're all I got." A pause. "They'll take good care of yer." He presses a little bit of money—the rest he has—into both women's hands. "For new furn'ture. And rent."

"You arm bleed!" The Oriental exclaims, and pulls the scarf off of her head. She stops walking to tie it around the gash in his arm.

"Thank you," he says softly, and she looks pleased but uneasy. Like she isn't used to common courtesy.

Cora glances at him as they continue walking. "Yer a good man, Tommy Greene. I _am_ sorry I drugged yer. Uden woulda exposed us if I hadn't."

As he leaves them safely at Meggie's and limps on his way out of the slums with a brute leaned up against him, Tommy thinks it's good that he never promised not to try to get Cora's help again. He will. Now to drop this guy off in prison and then find Barton. No matter how long it takes.


End file.
